


Follow Me Down

by affluent_absolution



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, BAMF John, Graphic Sex, M/M, Protective Mycroft, Reichenbach Fall, TRF, Tags to be added, lots of dialouge, you'll like it i promise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:39:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6499327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/affluent_absolution/pseuds/affluent_absolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sherlock's fall, John is miserable and greiving. Halfway across the world, Sherlock feels equally miserable. Will one text bring them together forever, or wreck them completely?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Dead

**Author's Note:**

> If you read my Advent Calendar of Fics, you can skip/skim the first two chapters. This is the story I promised back in November, complete and regularly (indeterminate small spaces between chapters) posted.

John went into Sherlock’s room two days after the fall. He had been in there before, but this time seemed different, since Sherlock would never step foot in it again. John sat on the bed and looked around. Simple, neat, efficient. Very Sherlock. One of his dressing gowns was hanging on the doorknob and John tugged it off without thinking. He lifted it to his face and inhaled deeply. It smelled like Sherlock, and for a fraction of a fraction of a second, he could almost imagine he was hugging him. But he wasn’t, because Sherlock was dead, and John felt like he was dying inside, with no passion or motivation to summon to do anything. Oh, and the nightmares were back, and now Sherlock featured in them. Everyone was dying, and John had to watch them all.  
  
Sherlock was dead. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock. Was. Dead.  
John repeated it over and over to himself. He couldn’t believe it. Sherlock was dead. John had watched him. That was almost worse: John had stood there, watching. Sherlock had called him there just to watch Sherlock plummet. If Sherlock were alive, John wanted to hit him, and hug him, and just stare at him blankly in equal measures.  
But he couldn’t. Because Sherlock was dead.  
  
Not to be one-sided, Sherlock felt equally terrible. He could have said it on that call. But he didn’t, because it wouldn’t have been right. On the off chance John returned the sentiment, it would be all the more painful for him. Yes, of course Sherlock realized how it would hurt John. He lived with John. John stayed with him through more than a year, mostly happily. That kind of—friendship?—friendship does not end without a little bit of mourning. Sherlock knew that.  
But since he hadn’t said it on the call, now he might, very likely might, die without saying it. He entrusted Mycroft with the information to supply to John if he died, and Mycroft was oddly solemn and quiet about it. All the urgings that sentiment would destroy him, and there were none this time. Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was happy about it.  
  
John texted Sherlock’s phone often. He would text, “Good morning,” and “I hope you’re eating something in Heaven,” and “God, now I’m the bored one.” He texted “Don’t be dead, Sherlock,” and then just “Please.” Each went through, so John knew somewhere, a phone was buzzing with the texts.  
  
The buzzing happened to be in Sherlock’s pocket. He had told Mycroft the phone was destroyed in the fall, but it obviously hadn’t. He had taken it, just in case John texted him.  
And John did.  
Sherlock wanted desperately to reply to each.  
He held out until John sent a text that said only, “Please,” at one in the morning. He had just landed in Czechoslovakia, and Mycroft was off doing something. Sherlock sighed, bit his lip, and tapped a reply.  
-  
“Not dead.” [send]  
Sherlock slipped his phone into his pocket and looked over at Mycroft.  
  
John grabbed at his phone. If it was another sympathy text, he’d throw it. But a glimmer of hope sparkled inside him: seconds after he had texted Sherlock’s phone, he had a reply. It would be a hell of a coincidence if it was someone else.  
“Not dead.”  
John stared at his phone, mouth dry. His heart rate increased and he bent over the phone.  
“Where are you?”  
  
Sherlock felt his phone buzz. Mycroft was still on a call and didn’t hear it. He flipped it out and looked at the screen. John knew; Sherlock had saved him from the mourning, for the most part. If he told John, John would come after him, surely. And he couldn’t put John’s life in danger like that.  
“I can’t tell you.”  
“Yes, you bloody well can.”  
Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. Nothing. “It’s dangerous.”  
  
John scoffed at his phone. “Trying to recruit me again?”  
“I can’t lose you for real.”  
“That’s why if we die, we should die together.”  
  
Sherlock stared at his phone, then looked over at Mycroft. Mycroft had noticed and was looking at him closely.  
“Shall I make preparations for two, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock bit his lip.  
“Czechoslovakia.”  
“I think that will be in order, Mycroft.”  
Mycroft nodded and put his phone back to his ear.  
  
John stared at his phone until it beeped. Czechoslovakia, of course.  
“I’m coming.”  
He grabbed his wallet, phone, and jacket and raced down the steps to the flat. He almost told Mrs. Hudson where he was going, but decided against it—it needed to be like he disappeared, like Sherlock.  
“I can’t make it by train in the same day.”  
“Mycroft will send a jet. Wait outside Angelo’s.”  
  
“How long can we wait?” Sherlock asked Mycroft.  
“Three hours, but that’s risky. Are you sure, Sherlock?”  
Sherlock sighed. “I don’t know.”  
“I suggest you decide.”  
  
John waited outside Angelo’s for all of two minutes before one of Mycroft’s sleek black cars picked him up. He shook his leg anxiously against the leather interior, and watched out the window as the city sped by. They reached the airport much too slowly for John’s taste and drove straight onto the runway. A plane was waiting there as promised, and John couldn’t get out of the car fast enough.  
“Getting on the plane.”  
  
Sherlock and Mycroft were seated in a small café by the airport.  
“How long?”  
“Two and a half hours left.”  
Sherlock stared into his coffee and hoped it was enough.  
  
John watched out the window as the plane taxied. Why couldn’t they go faster? Who decided to pursue this instead of teleportation? Jesus, Sherlock was alive. That, or it was another one of Moriarty’s tricks—not him, of course, but one of his web. He still couldn’t believe Sherlock had let him believe he was dead, but there had to be a reason. And besides, Sherlock was alive, and John was going to him and it would be magnificent.  
  
Sherlock checked his phone for the fiftieth time. One hour left.  
“Stretching it, Sherlock,” Mycroft warned. “They’ll figure it out.”  
Sherlock glared at him. “We’re waiting.”  
“Decided, have you?”  
Sherlock sneered and checked his phone again.  
  
John was dying. This was taking too long. Whatever Sherlock was doing, he wouldn’t be able to wait long. He barely glanced at the miniscule countryside under him as they flew. He paced the cabin. What on earth was Sherlock doing? Was he hurt? God, that would be worse than if he was dead.  
“John, I need you to sit down.” Mycroft’s female of choice pointed to the seatbelt light. John grinned and buckled himself in as quickly as he could.  
  
“Fifteen minutes,” Mycroft said.  
“Where is your plane?” Sherlock snarled.  
Mycroft shrugged.  
“I swear to God, if you sabotaged this—”  
“Sherlock,” Mycroft said sharply. He might’ve yelled it, but the idea was to be invisible. “I am not to interfere with this unless you are about to die, remember? As far as I see it, Doctor Watson may actually keep you alive.”  
Sherlock sat back, tapped his empty coffee cup on the table, and checked his phone. Thirteen minutes.  
  
The plane bumped on the ground and Mycroft’s worker glanced at him, as if she expected him to hop out of the emergency exit. John unbuckled his seatbelt the second the sign turned off and practically bolted out the door and down the steps.  
“I’m here. Where are you?”  
  
Sherlock’s phone beeped and he jumped. He grabbed Mycroft’s coat. “He’s here,” he whispered.  
Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock, it’s twenty minutes past the time we should’ve left.”  
“But he’s here.”  
Mycroft inhaled and exhaled. “Fine. Quickly.”  
“Coming. Stay there.”  
They hurried back to the airport, Sherlock towing Mycroft reluctantly behind him.  
  
John stared around the runway.  
“John, come on.” Mycroft’s worker motioned with her head to the car beside the plane. John reluctantly got inside.  
“Where are we going?”  
“Where do you think?”  
  
Mycroft insisted they stop at the arrivals gate, and Sherlock stamped his foot.  
“This is taking too long,” he whined.  
“Not my problem,” Mycroft said, and checked his watch.  
  
The car drove around the airport and stopped at arrivals. John got out immediately and looked around. Even trying to blend in among the crowds of Czech people loading cars, Sherlock and Mycroft stood out blatantly. Mycroft, in his suit and leaning on his umbrella; and Sherlock, in one of his suits, sans Belstaff in the heat, fidgeting and looking around.  
“Sherlock!” John yelled, without even thinking about using Sherlock’s name.  
Sherlock spun around and locked eyes with him immediately. John jogged over, mumbling apologies to families he dodged around. He reached him in seconds, grinning. Sherlock answered him with a small smile, and before John knew what he was doing, he had his hands in Sherlock’s collar and was crushing their mouths together. Sherlock stiffened, then his hands found John’s hips and he stepped forward so they were chest-to-chest.  
Mycroft cleared his throat. “Very touching, but we are trying not to make a scene, and we are in fact on a schedule, if you remember, Sherlock.”  
Sherlock broke for long enough to snap, “Two minutes, Mycroft,” and then leaned his forehead on John’s.  
“Are you okay?” John whispered. “Are you hurt?”  
“No, I’m fine,” Sherlock whispered back. “No big missions yet. I’ll tell you about it in the car. No luggage?”  
“Thought better of it.”  
“And you didn’t tell anyone?”  
“Nope.”  
Sherlock kissed him again.


	2. Celebration

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft, poor beds, and happy boys.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad formatting comes with the fic. Package deal.

In the car, Sherlock explained everything. He had to dismantle the web, and had to kill himself so John wasn’t. He was supposed to remain “dead” for as long as it took to dismantle the web completely, or until he really did die. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand at appropriate times, but mostly listened to the story. Mycroft sat quietly, doing something on his phone.

  
“So the whole thing was to keep me safe?” John asked when Sherlock was done.

Sherlock nodded.

“And how are we feeling about me coming with?”

Sherlock shrugged and looked out the window. He wanted John with him, of course, he always did, but now if John died, it would be all his fault, and he didn’t know if he could deal with that.

John nudged Sherlock’s chin back towards him. “I said, how are we feeling?”

Sherlock pursed his lips.

“Say something.”

“You can’t die.”

John blinked and smiled. “I won’t die, Sherlock. Promise. We’re in this together, and we’ll fight Moriarty together. Just one condition.”

“What?”

“You can’t die either.”

Mycroft sighed loudly and Sherlock looked at him sharply. “Care to say something, Mycroft?”

“Nothing at all.”

The car rolled to a stop outside a small cottage, more of a hut, really. John doesn’t ask if they’re staying there. He knows.

Sherlock leads him out of the car and they push open the door together.

“Should I carry you over the threshold?” John jokes. “Like a bride?”

Sherlock chuckles. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

The inside of the hut is dusty and bare. There’s a mattress in the corner of the single room, and further inspection of the kitchen shows a few biscuits and cans.

“I doubt you’ll actually stay here more than one night,” Mycroft said, swiping a finger over the counter and drawing his mouth up in disgust. “You’ll have tonight to… rest, before beginning the mission. Sherlock, I trust you can explain it to Doctor Watson. You’ll no longer require my assistance, so I’ll see myself out.” He strode to the door, paused and turned back. “And Sherlock?”

“Yes, what is it, Mycroft?”

“Congratulations.”

Mycroft shut the door, dislodging a cloud of dust, and Sherlock and John were alone in the dim, dusty room.

Sherlock looked around the room. “So, no telly. What to do tonight?”

John stepped forward and was very quickly very close to Sherlock. “I have an idea,” he said, leaning in and plucking at Sherlock’s collar.

Sherlock blushed. “You’re sure?”

John smiled. “From what I’ve heard, our first mission is tomorrow, so if you die tomorrow, after we have this, I’ll never forgive myself it I never got to… well.”

“You’d never forgive yourself anyways.”

“I’d wouldn’t forgive myself more.”

“Not possible,” Sherlock mumbled. John leaned forward and caught Sherlock’s mouth on his, slow and careful.

“Are you sure?” he whispered.

Sherlock nodded and pressed himself closer to John, wrapping his arms around his torso.

“Good,” John said, and pressed their lips together again. This time it was hard and urgent; John’s teeth nipped Sherlock’s bottom lip and Sherlock’s mouth opened willingly. Sherlock groaned into John’s mouth and pressed himself closer yet. John maneuvered them back and sat down hard on the mattress.“Not the best conditions,” he muttered. “But it’ll do.”  
Sherlock couldn’t agree more, but he was too busy straddling John’s lap. They had landed just so he was in the perfect position to do so. They were sitting on the mattress lengthwise, so Sherlock could push John backwards easily. He didn’t yet, though. He cupped John’s face and kissed him thoroughly. John’s hands threaded into his hair and brushed through it. Sherlock groaned and pushed John back.

John landed heavily, and it would’ve knocked the air out of him if he wasn’t already breathless. He pulled Sherlock down on top of him and grinned. His hands explored Sherlock’s back, shoulders, arms, and hips, roaming up and down, fingertips trailing into dips and over curves. “Bloody gorgeous,” he said in between fervent kisses. He kicked his shoes off and Sherlock did too.

Sherlock kissed the grin off John’s face. He wanted to taste his smiles, his laughter, his joy, because there was a chance he might not smile for a long time, or Sherlock wouldn’t be around to see his smiles anymore. His arms were braced on either side of John, and he hated it, because he couldn’t touch, couldn’t memorize every piece of John’s body before it’s too late. He flipped them quickly and remedied the situation.

John is looking down on Sherlock now, and has no idea how it happened. Not that he’s complaining, because now Sherlock’s long fingers roamed over his back and hips and thighs, running teasing lines and spirals everywhere. He moved from kissing Sherlock’s mouth to his jaw, and peppered it with small kisses down to his neck. Sherlock’s lips are bruised and John took the smallest moment to feel proud. He resumed pressing small kisses to Sherlock’s face, and licked a stripe up Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock moaned and tilted his head to give John better access. John placed reverent kisses from collarbone to ear, pausing over the pulse point to feel Sherlock’s rapid heartbeat on his lips.

“Would it be too conspicuous to leave a bruise?” he panted.

“Probably,” Sherlock said. “Shame.”

Though disappointed, John smiled. Sherlock wanted everyone to know he was John’s.

John mouthed back down Sherlock’s neck and pressed a kiss to the dip between his collarbones. He nipped at Sherlock’s collar and Sherlock’s hands immediately left John’s back to work on the buttons.

John sat back and pulled Sherlock up with him, then batted Sherlock’s hands away. He worked down the buttons slowly while Sherlock pulled, annoyed, at the hem of his jumper. Halfway down the shirt, John gave up and pulled the jumper over his head.

“There,” he said, and Sherlock made a little noise of happiness, then started to work on the buttons of John’s shirt while John finished Sherlock’s. Sherlock shrugged off his shirt and John did too, and both were discarded somewhere in the room. John pushed Sherlock back down and kissed a line down his chest to the clasp of his trousers. Sherlock grabbed at his back, fingernails sliding over planes of muscle. Sherlock calmed after a moment, and John flinched when cautious fingertips found his scar and smoothed over it. John shifted his weight and brushed one thumb over Sherlock’s ribs, then down to his hip bone.

Sherlock was still fascinated with John’s scar. John sighed, pretending to be irritated, and turned them on their side, so that Sherlock could still finger the scar but so John could touch too. He brushed his thumbs over Sherlock’s collarbones and nipples. Sherlock shivered, but didn’t stop with the scar. He had moved to the front, too.

“Interested?” John asked.

“Very,” Sherlock said. “You’ll have to let me see this more often.”

“Fine. Sherlock?”

“Hm?”

“Trousers.”

Sherlock broke out of his trance and stared at John for a moment. He fumbled his trousers off, then started on John’s. John let him this time, and kicked his jeans somewhere. 

This time, neither were on top and they snogged with hands sliding everywhere. John could win Olympic medals in kissing Sherlock. There wasn’t much in the world he would do more tirelessly than kiss the man, slowly, licking, biting, memorizing—it was amazing.

Sherlock would die if it meant he could kiss John for an eternity. In a way, he supposed he had.

For several minutes, it was quiet except for the slide of skin and groans when their cocks brushed through their pants. Eventually, Sherlock found his need to be a touch too persistent, and hauled John over him.

“Fuck me,” he said through clenched teeth, and tipped his head back.

John ran a hand down the back of Sherlock’s thigh and lifted it to fit over his shoulder. Sherlock’s other leg wrapped around John’s back and pulled him forward. John almost lost his balance, but caught himself.

“Relax,” he grinned.

“You’re moving so slowly,” Sherlock whined.

“If this is our first, and theoretically last, time, I’m going slow.”

Sherlock groaned and nudged John forward again.

“Just hold on, love.”

He spit on his fingers, grimacing at the crudeness of it, and pressed his first finger in. Sherlock threw his head back and John panted. He crooked the finger, and inserted another next to it, moving them up and scissoring.

"Fuck, John, now," Sherlock forced out through clenched teeth.

John removed his fingers and lined up his cock with Sherlock’s entrance. He pushed in slowly, and Sherlock groaned. His hands flailed with nothing to hold onto. John pushed all the way in and Sherlock’s hands found his shoulders and scratched angry red lines across them.

“Fuck, John,” he gasped.

“Jesus, you’re perfect,” John groaned. “So fucking perfect. I can’t kiss you, but God, I want to.”

Sherlock leaned forward as far as he could and braced his head on John’s shoulder. John pressed kisses into his hair over and over, until Sherlock dropped back.

“Fuck, move, John,” Sherlock yelled.

John pulled out and thrust back in, building a steady rhythm. Sherlock writhed under him, cock angry and wet. John pulled out almost completely and thrust back in. Sherlock’s shout was enough to tell him he’d found his prostate. John hit it over and over, until Sherlock couldn’t say anything but babbled versions of John’s name. John managed to reach a hand over and stroke Sherlock’s cock several times. Sherlock shouted, yelled something like John’s name, and came in thick white spurts over John’s hand and his stomach. John only needed a few more erratic thrusts before he came too, spilling inside of Sherlock. Once the white spots faded from his eyes, he pulled out and flopped down next to Sherlock.

“Thank God it’s warm here,” John said, settling back onto the bare mattress.

“I agree,” Sherlock said. “The colder locations have blankets, I think.”

“I hope so,” John said. He turned on his side and pulled Sherlock towards him. Sherlock went willingly and John pressed a kiss into his curls. “G’night, love.”  
Sherlock smiled and felt John’s breath even into deep waves against his back. It might’ve been peaceful, if there wasn’t the possibility they could die the next day.  
Sherlock stared into the dimness, brain simultaneously untamable and yet quiet. John’s chest was pressed to his back, and it felt wonderful, but why did it have to be now? John was his conductor of light, yes, but he also had a talent for quieting his mind, and his mind needed to be nothing but sharp for this entire journey. John would nag him about eating, but he would also gingerly tend to his wounds. He would yell at Sherlock’s risk-taking, but also follow him through any risk. He would moan about tea and telly, but he was John. John would protect him, and he needed protection. John was a soldier, and he needed soldier instincts. John loved him, and he needed motivation. Before, that motivation was to get back to John. Now it’s to stay with John, no matter what.

A nagging thought tugged at the back of Sherlock’s mind. What if he isn’t really in love with you? What if he realizes halfway through that this is ridiculous and overly ambitious and doesn’t care enough about Sherlock to stay and risk his own life?

Sherlock shifted back into John and sighed. John’s arm snaked farther around him and held him tight. Sherlock decided that the fears could wait until morning.


	3. Morning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning after, and the morning before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New stuff, finally.

The two men were awakened by dim sunlight streaming through the windows. Sherlock blinked blearily towards the light. He could see dust floating in the beams. Honestly, he would have preferred Baker Street’s dust and light, but John was still pressed to his back, legs tangled in his. It was still the slightest bit blissful, even with all the thoughts chewing away at him already.

Speaking of, he was actually hungry. This relationship may be an issue, increasing his need for sustenance and all. He carefully disentangled himself from John, regretting the loss of contact almost immediately, and treaded softly to the kitchen. He grabbed a tin of biscuits and examined the cans. All of them were tab-tops, in a small variety of foods. Peaches, peas, chicken, and beans were the only four types, but where there would have been just four, there were now eight cans. Sherlock had never been so grateful for Mycroft’s men and their quickness.

Sherlock left the cans of peaches out on the counter and brought the biscuits back to the mattress and John. He popped the top and ate a few, carefully cataloguing every mark, crease, and bit of stubble on John’s face. He really did look beautiful when he was sleeping, whereas he looked handsome awake. Asleep, the creases in his forehead ironed out and his eyebrows relaxed to a look of peace. 

And he was Sherlock’s. All his beauty and strength and bravery and comfort was being given to Sherlock, free of charge. Sherlock strongly suspected even if it was unrequited, John would wholeheartedly and unerringly give all his wonderful qualities to Sherlock. And in return, Sherlock gave himself to John. It was love, in the simplest, fairy-tale sense.

 

John was awakened by a sharp knock on the door. He opened his eyes and turned over in the empty bed to see Sherlock at the door, clad in only his trousers, speaking in hushed tones with someone. John grabbed his own trousers from nearby and pulled them on. He walked over to the door to see what was happening.

“Mycroft, you promised.”

“Hard as it is to believe, you are my brother, and I find it incredibly difficult to contemplate losing you.”

“What the hell am I supposed to say to that?”

“Hey, guys. Good morning, Mycroft. Love.” John removed Sherlock’s arm from the doorframe so he could stand next to him and slipped his arm around Sherlock’s waist. He pecked Sherlock’s cheek as casually as he could manage in front of Mycroft, and returned to stare at a disgruntled and vaguely uncomfortable Mycroft.

“Yes, well,” Mycroft said, regaining his composure. “This is the last time I’ll visit you, I promise. I just wanted to make sure that everything was taken care of. If not, see to it that you’re both properly informed. About everything. As you two probably know, distractions are not to be afforded.”

“Yes, thank you,” Sherlock said, making to close the door.

Mycroft shoved one annoyingly polished shoe in the crack before it could close completely. “Not so fast, brother mine. I’d like to speak to John a moment, alone.”

Sherlock sneered. “Hurry. We do have places to be. And quickly.”

“Right.” Sherlock slipped out of John’s arm and went back into the hut. Mycroft waited for him to be out of earshot, then lowered his voice.

“We had things planned out, you know,” Mycroft whispered. “The first few stops. Hunches, hints for the rest. Most are single-person dwellings with one-person rations. I—”

“Yeah, I get it. I screwed up all your careful plans. But if you think for one second that I will—”

“I don’t expect you to,” Mycroft interrupted. “I just need you to know that if you hurt him, you will be extracted from this mission immediately, and you will never see him again.”

John sighed and nodded, arms crossed over his chest. “I know, you pompous git. You can deduce as well as your brother. I’d never do that to him on purpose.”

“That’s what I’m worried about, John. He loves you. If you get hurt or die, especially for him, it will break him. His entire initiative was to get back to you alive, because he died to keep you safe. Never forget that.”

“I won’t. But if you think I won’t throw myself in front of a bullet for him, you’re terribly mistaken.”

“Do as you like, John. I simply highly recommend you avoid death at all costs.”

“That’s the plan,” Sherlock said, stepping back into the doorframe. “Now, Mycroft, if you’re done threatening my boyfriend, we do have to work.”

Mycroft sighed. “Good luck, Sherlock.”

Sherlock nodded, Mycroft stepped away and walked down the path away from the hut, and John shut the door. Immediately, he was pulled against a now-dressed Sherlock and held tightly to the taller man’s chest. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso and returned the vigorous embrace for several seconds.

“Our first mission is today,” Sherlock murmured into John’s hair.

“Mm, yes,” John agreed into Sherlock’s shoulder. “Care to tell me about it?”

“In a moment.”


	4. Mission 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> well Nano is here. u know what that means. bad formatting. typing right in the ao3 box and hoping nothing breaks (also there's no spellcheck so imma do my best). i don't know where this is going because i haven't looked at it in like foreverrrr so hmu in the comments if i screw everytang up, kay? thx babes

John was standing on the top of a bland, boxy grey warehouse in the industrial district. He had a cheap flip phone as means of communication with Sherlock, but didn't need to use it yet. He was waiting on the signal, so currently he was surveying the view of the industrial park from some prime real estate on one of the taller buildings there. It was most of the same: long rows of flat, rectangular, bland storage containers or warehouses. At the other end were factories, but he was far enough away that he could only see spiraling smoke creeping into the atmosphere. He checked the gun at the small of his back for the sixth time in the last fifteen minutes and checked the phone again. Still nothing.

On the way over, Sherlock had explained the mission. They were starting on the outer branches of the web, so to speak. The operatives at the very edges that weren't crucial to the structure of the web. Therefore, they were easier to locate and would be easier to take down. Most of them wouldn't know much, but Sherlock and Mycroft had decided that by taking out lower-ranking operatives first, no one would notice for a while. Sherlock would have time to deduce and Mycroft would have time to research and extract information using his own people. Then, once they had enough information to find higher-ranking workers, they could abandon the lowest tier and climb up until they hit the controlling spiders. The bottom tiers would mostly dissolve on their own.

It unsettled John that he didn't know the man's name. There was to be a van, sometime in the current hour, and it would arrive at the warehouse carrying "shipping materials," which turned out to be code for highly illegal, highly lethal firearms. Sherlock refused to tell John the name of the man running the operation. He said it would humanize the man, and if there was one thing that wouldn't help them, it would be humanizing the people. As much as John hated it, he had to agree. There were thousands of people working under Moriarty. If John wanted to name and empathize with each one, it would cost them valuable time and resources. John could deal with it later. Mourning a thousand evil strangers was a miniscule price to pay for having Sherlock back, alive and with him, his partner in every sense of the word.

John felt the phone vibrate in his pocket. The word "kitten" was the only mesage in the text box. Sherlock couldn't sign his texts, of course. John deleted the message and snapped into action.

(The story of determining the word "kitten" as the code word is as follows: Sherlock had suggested Fly, because the men were, in a sense, stuck in a web, but that seemed to short. Flea was suggested next, then Dog, because dogs have fleas and it seemed suitably vague. Again, it seemed too short. Dog became Puppies, which became Kitten. Neither of them had ever been cat people.)

There was a small metal door that opened on to the roof. John crowded against it, gun already in hand. He peered through the wired glass window, and seeing no one on the stairs, eased open the door and desceneded quietly down the metal staircase. He reached a landing that provided some cover with a wide maintenance pole and he slotted himself behind it, checking the stairs below him. Still, there was no one. John crept down the rest of the stairs to the fifth floor. He could hear voices coming from below. Sherlock's distinctive baritone- he'd been pretending to be a confused stockboy. There was a thin catwalk on the fourth floor, so, trying not to hold his breath but hoping desperately for Sherlock's safety, John inched down another flight to the fourth floor.

The fourth floor, thankfully, was as deserted as the rest of the warehouse. It wasn't even a warehouse, technically. It was technically an arms dealings base; more where the sales took place than where the guns were stored. That meant that ninety percent of the building was empty ninety percent of the time. From the fourth floor stairs landing, John could see where the catwalk opened. Gently, he eased himself across the tile floor and onto the catwalk. It swung slightly as John stepped on it, and he ducked his head in case anyone noticed. Moments later, he glanced over the railing to see no one had noticed.

There were four men. Three lackeys plus the target. The lackeys were in the background, moving boxes. The target was talking to Sherlock with growing agitation John could see even from three floors away. He watched Sherlock's hands, tucked behind his back, in perfect view for John. When all three lackeys were hidden deep behind rows of boxes, Sherlock flicked his right wrist and lifted his left thumb. John raised his gun, took aim, and fired.

The target dropped and Sherlock sprinted left.

John clambered off the catwalk and ran down the stairs to the ground floor. When he arrived, Sherlock was wrestling with one of the lackeys while fending off another with sporadic kicks. One already lay on the ground. When the second lackey, the one Sherlock wasn't actively fighting, noticed John, he abandoned Sherlock and sprinted at John.

In a fluid motion, John raised his gun and fired. The bullet pierced the man's shoulder and he collapsed. The third man stepped away from Sherlock and raised his arms.

"Hey, hey, you don't want to hurt me, do you? I was just working. I didn't know what they were doing until they said I couldn't leave. I didn't know, I swear."

Sherlock glanced at John, then to John's gun.

John fired into the man's thigh and turned around, walking toward the exit. Sherlock was at his side in a moment, panting but grinning.

"Alright?"

"Brilliant. You?"

"One down, countless to go. But that went spectacularly, I think," Sherlock agreed. "Harboring any guilt?"

"Not much. Helps that they weren't very good people."

"True. Mycroft will be by in twenty minutes to sweep the warehouse clean. We'd better get going."

"Agreed."

John held the door for Sherlock and together they took off through the park, cutting through side streets and alleys, winding an untraceable path back into the city.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo i'm supposed to be doing poetry for this nano but i have like zero energy so this happened :)


	5. We Interrupt Regularly Scheduled Programming to Bring You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i need 200 more words  
> have 200 words of fluff right here right now  
> it's too late for this lmaooooo

It was a disturbing mix of horror and fun, now that John thought about it. Getting baddies off the streets, saving people's lives, dismantling an international terror organization-- that was all fantastic, great fun. The killing bits, though? The fearing for his and Sherlock's safety? The spontaneous suicide/disappearance? Decidedly less fun. John meditated on this while he lay with his head on Sherlock's chest. He appreciated that Sherlock was putting up with his thoughts and just stroking through his hair evenly while he thought.

"It won't be like this every day, you know," Sherlock said, quietly.

"How so?"

"There won't be just one mission a day. That's too few and we both know it. Three or four most of the time. Long hours. Even longer than my typical case hours. Less food and water than my normal case intake. And medical attention--"

"You're panicking," John said calmly. "It's okay, love. I know what I signed up for. I knew it wouldn't be easy when I disappeared."

"Yes, but--"

"Love, I can hardly leave you now."

"Of course you can't, you've already--"

"Sherlock, shut up for a moment, will you?" At Sherlock's continued silence, John continued. "You explained this all to me. And then Mycroft explained it again, with added threats. It's you and me. We'll make it through if we have to make it through on willpower alone. It's all fine."

(John would not regret his statement. Not when he was stitching up Sherlock between missions, not when neither of them had eaten in two days, not when leads ran thin and Sherlock was all but pulling his hair out in frustration. John knew that having Sherlock with him, alive, loving him, was so much better than a cold existence without him. He could wish for food and safety and warmth all he wanted, but the undeniable facts were there.)

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head. "The target today mentioned something promising. Do you want to go back out tomorrow or will tonight suit?"

"Tonight sounds lovely. It's a date."

Sherlock smiled and launched into a spiel of deductions. Apparently, this time it was a private yacht at midnight at an exclusive invite-only party.

"Very Bond," John commented, and Sherlock grinned.


	6. Overture

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> how many followers did i lose in the great writing recession of 2016 i wonder

John misses Sherlock's violin. He thinks Sherlock does too, sometimes. He's pretty sure of it, actually, when he sees Sherlock pacing around whatever tiny shelter they have that night, all but tearing his hair out over the problem at hand. John misses quite a few things, actually. He misses quiet nights in and violin music lilting through the flat at all hours. He misses Mrs. Hudson's scones. Ironically enough, he misses he the safe danger of cases back in London for Lestrade. At least then they had reliable backup and they knew the territory. 

On the other hand, which nearly cancelled out watching Sherlock's frustration manifested in near violence, Sherlock's joy at finishing a mission or making deductions was incredibly amplified. His smiles, once muted but distinctly pleased after cases, were wide and outlandishly positive. Each deduction was a crucial breakthrough. Energy ran sky-high, even when it had been ages since food or sleep- for both of them. On the nights they had breaks and a decent place to sleep where it was deemed safe enough neither of them needed to stand guard, Sherlock would hold him tight to his chest through the night. These were rare occurences, and John lived for them. If he thought about it, most of his energy didn't come from taking down the bad guys and dismantling the network (he suspected Sherlock's did). Most of his energy came from the hope of another night of them pressed tightly together, despite being stinking and hungry and tired. He lived and worked tirelessly toward the day when they could return to Baker Street, and then they could cuddle every night. He hoped Sherlock would still want him after this was all over. He thoroughly suspected he would.

Once, John shaved his head to go undercover on a mission. He had no qualms about doing it; his hair had been shorn nearly as short in the military and it was reeking by the time the mission came up. But no matter how many times he reassured Sherlock that it would grow back, Sherlock was strongly against the idea until there was really no other option. When it came time, John used a women's hand mirror and battery-powered razor while Sherlock lay on his back on the floor, eyes shut, complaining loudly about the travesty that was John trimming his hair to the scalp.

"It's really not a big deal, love," John had said over the buzz of the clippers. "It'll all be back in a few months."

"No," Sherlock had replied with an irritated huff. "Visible regrowth after one month. Roughly an inch after two months. Five months until it's near normal again, John. That is not a few months."

"Actually, it is," John said, and stuck his tongue out as he buzzed the back of his head. "This would go faster if you helped, you know."

"Fine," Sherlock said, storming up and stomping over to John. "It's patchy. Give me the razor."

"Gladly." John handed the vibrating demon to Sherlock. Sherlock clicked it off, and before John could protest, cupped the back and sides of John's skull in his hands. He turned John's head slowly and gently so he could see the damage John had done. After a moment, Sherlock muttered something under his breath and turned the razor back on. In long, measured swipes, Sherlock cleared John's head, rubbing behind the razor in what felt quite a bit like comfort to John. For who, he wasn't sure.

At the end of the ordeal, Sherlock chucked the batteries out of the window and smashed the offending razor. John admired himself in the mirror and conceded that it did look really rather weird.

In five month's time, as Sherlock had predicted, John's hair was nearly back to normal. Albeit much less styled and much dirtier, but there was a fair amount of hair on his head. Sherlock noted that there was more grey than before, and John fired back that his hair didn't look so wonderful either. Sherlock was a natural auburn, and his roots were prominent. Sherlock hated them and threatened to shave his own head once. But John said he looked smashing with a red-black ombre even though it was greasy, and Sherlock felt midly appeased.

They both grew beards after some time, and it was uncomfortable in multiple ways. Every possible time he could, Mycroft sent razors their way and they pounced on them. The luxury of shaving was not one John had even thought about in the list of things he would miss, but he does. 

But above all the things John misses--scones, doing the shop at Tesco, his own bed, heating and air conditioning, the violin-- he misses that they cannot be at home yet. He misses the idea that the future is so distant and amorphous and unlikely. He misses, inexplicably, something he never had. He hopes desperately, prays even, in the darker moments, that they'll get back home and he'll be able to hold Sherlock and they'll be able to watch telly and he'll hold Sherlock's hand on the way back from cases. It's his endless driving force, and he hopes Sherlock knows it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TheRocketQueen90 has A++ covers on rock music if any of you guys are interested  
> i have no idea if the hair growth facts are right
> 
> i wrote this over three days so it's probably repetitive idk


	7. Watching

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i'm writing another story called "Ye Olde Wingfic" if you guys want to give it some love  
> it's ok i guess i bet you'll like it if you kinda like wingfics  
> anyway decided to give this fic some love

Sherlock watched John almost all the time. Certainly whenever he has the chance. It's hard not to. He never thought he'd have the chance to watch John this intently without having to scramble for an excuse. He also never anticipated that John would join him on this journey. John was more fragile than him, physically at least. He needed sleep and food more often, so Sherlock, in addition to any romantic reasons, kept a close eye on John's physical well-being. Now that John was with him on this, he knew he wouldn't be able to function whatsoever if John was incapacitated. So, with all this watching and eagle-eyeing, Sherlock had come to the unfortunate conclusion that John was far more tired than he'd like to admit to himself or Sherlock. He seemed tired to any bystander- the bags under his eyes, the duller shine in his eyes, the near-permanent slump in his shoulders that he worked to correct whenever he noticed it. It wasn't his fault, of course. It was a high-stress operation, made higher stress by their emotional entanglement. The missions also kept them up at all hours, waking and sleeping and eating at odd and irregular hours, and any normal person would have cracked weeks ago. But John wasn't normal. He was still going, of course, because he was John and he had the willpower of twelve John Henrys, plus the steam train, but beyond the surface, John was  _exhausted._

Sherlock noticed it first in John's hand. In the small, short quiet hours, his hand trembled now and then. It took Sherlock longer than he would have liked to determine the cause. It wasn't lack of danger or stress, obviously. Sherlock had to discover another cause of the tremor: extreme exhaustion. It had likely been a contributor when they met as well, because John had rarely slept through the night, in additon going to sleep late and waking early, back then. The sleeping habits they had now weren't terribly different.

Beyond John's hand, there were more worrying signs. Decreased cognitive function- John contributed less to solving the cases. He still helped and still made a brilliant sounding board and conductor of light, but it was ever so much slower than when they lived at Baker Street. He was also less affectionate- which had been incredibly difficult to detect. With their odd hours, they rarely had time for luxuries such as kissing and cuddling. And when they did have down time, it was usually utilized to sleep as much as possible. When they could both sleep at the same time, rather than one of them taking guard, and on the rare occasions they were afforded a proper bed, they always fell asleep together, arms and legs entwined. But these glorious times were rare. When they were working, neither of them were particularly inclined toward affection. Before a case that seemed more dangerous than the rest, John might make Sherlock pause for a kiss and serious "I love you," but most of the time there was only a tacit understanding of love and promise of a more devoted love life when they were both thoroughly safe again. Very occasionally, when John felt that Sherlock was working too hard and had gone really, really far too long without a break for food or sleep- John always made sure Sherlock knew his motivations and that there was a very good reason for interrupting him- John would place a careful palm on Sherlock's cheek and angle Sherlock's head to look him in the eyes. And Sherlock will never be able to resist those blue eyes, especially now when they had such an undertone of tiredness outlining the bright blue.

But John's perfect caring for him aside, Sherlock's conclusion was that John was tired and it was getting dangerous. And he didn't know what to do about it.

~

John was rather proud of himself, once he brushed aside the fact of what he had discovered. He had, for once, been the one to deduce something rather than Sherlock. Never mind that it was about Sherlock himself, who what notoriously terrible at recognizing when his body is too run down; he made the deductions, the observations, did the conclusion-drawing. 

And his conclusion? Sherlock is too goddamn tired.

John's first realization was gradual. They had solved so many missions already that when Sherlock's deductions started to slow down, it seemed expected. Like the farther they moved up the ladder or into the web, it ought to get more difficult to make connections. But after hearing Sherlock say too many "stupid"s and "obvious"s, John thought something was wrong. He thought about their sporradic sleeping schedule on poor surfaces in poor conditons. He thought about the immense stress lying on Sherlock's shoulders- it ought to be shared with John, really. It was, in John's opinion, and John felt the weight on his shoulders often enough. Sherlock just ought to realize he didn't have to carry the burden alone. He thought about their poor and irregular diet and how that alone could affect a person.

He took to examining Sherlock's face a little more closely. He realized he flicked his eyes over Sherlock's face too often, dismissing it as the same beautiful face as always. It was, in a way. He was still gorgeous, but he bore the signs that clearly spoke of exhaustion. Sharp, dark bags lingered persistently under his eyes that contrasted harshly with his pale skin. There was a bit of a pallor around the edges too, probably due to poor diet and recent lifestyle. His eyes were as bright and brilliant as ever, but where they once flicked around a crime scene and deduced in seconds, it took a few minutes to look, see, process, and deduce. To outsiders, it was still fantastic and unbelievable. To John, even, it was still a fantastic and unbelievable act. But since he had been so exposed to Sherlock for so long and knew him so well, he knew when something was wrong. And something was clearly, very wrong.

With the realization that he hardly looked closely at Sherlock's face, he realized that the only time he truly got to examine and run his hands gently over Sherlock's body was when there was an injury somewhere. There were fewer than either of them had anticipated, but still too many in John's opinion. With him there, at least, they could take on more enemies and sustain fewer injuries with their combined fighting expertise. Also, John had developed a habit of jerking Sherlock out of harm's way- ducking from flying rocks mid-deduction, pulling him left or right instead of the opposite during a fight when he had anticipated Sherlock's opponent while incapacitating his own, behind furniture and out of the path of more than one bullet. The fact that Sherlock depended on him this much was equal parts heartwarming and worrying. He liked being needed, but didn't exactly want to be needed in this way. What if he got sick or hurt enough to require bed rest? Never mind that neither of those were exactly in the question right now, but what if?

John's conclusion worried him. Sherlock was clearly too tired, and it was becoming dangerous for both of them. But there was no way to get Sherlock of all people to come of it and rest, and if there was, John hadn't heard it yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm too goddamn tired, thank you very much  
> also if you've never read the story about John Henry you should. it's a kid's legend about a dude who challenges a steam train to a railroad building contest through a mountain to preserve jobs for the town? also there's stuff about the underground railroad i think it's really cool i just haven't read it in a while


	8. Not All Fire and Brimstone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the boys get some sleep

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel right awful for not posting in so long so here's a shot

But not all of their time away is spent running about. Most of it is spent doing  _stuff:_  deducing, collecting information, talking to Mycroft, completing missions. But a significantly smaller, yet still large chunk of time is devoted to nothing. Blankness stretching for ages with nothing to do. Mycroft was always the one to initiate, Sherlock to respond, and John to sit by and accept whatever new development was thrown their way. The first of these times was not recieved well.

"You need to lie low for a while. You and Doctor Watson are extremely efficient, but they're starting to get suspicious."

"How long?"

"Hard to say. Maybe two weeks. Your living arrangements have been secured. You're welcome to do as you please."

"What I please to do is completing this hellish task so I can return to real life."

"We both know you can't plow through this like a cheap case. It requires as much patience as brute force."

"Yes, you've lectured me on it enough."

"Good. Pass the phone to Doctor Watson, please."

Sherlock harrumphed and held out the burner phone to John, sprawled on their mattress and trying to get some sleep.

"He wants to speak to you."

John groaned and hauled himself up off the makeshift bed. Sherlock tossed the phone to him and flopped down on the bed himself.

"Yeah?" John said, screwing his eyes shut and doing his best to retain cognitive function.

"I believe he may fall into one of his black moods, John. He's frustrated about the slow progress. I think--"

"I know what you bloody well think, Mycroft. I've been living with your brother for years. I think I know him, the adult version, not what he was like when he was ten, a bit better than you."

Silence.

"Sorry. I didn't mean that. Well, I did, but not quite so harshly. We're tired, alright? The both of us. And you too, I'd wager. I'll talk to you tomorrow." He hung up and tossed the phone onto the bed.

"Sherlock, let's get to bed. You'll feel better in the morning."

Sherlock turned over and buried his face in the stiff sheets. John sat on the side of the bed and plucked at Sherlock's overgrown curls.

"Two weeks? Twenty eight days. Too long. Far too long. Do you know what they can do in that amount of time?"

"We're doing well, love. How many have we disposed of just this month, do you think? And we're eons further up the web than when we started. We can take two weeks off. We're in Madrid, we might as well do some sightseeing."

Sherlock begrudgingly flipped onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes.

"Thirty three. And Madrid's all churches, anyway."

"Maybe I fancy a look at a few churches."

"Two weeks worth?"

John sighed and laid down. "I'm going to sleep. You can if you want to."

He didn't.

-

"Churches are horrid."

"I'm only going to two. And they're on opposite sides of the city. There'll be plenty of stuff between."

"Doesn't matter. I could be doing things."

"What's the point if there's two weeks and we can't execute anything?"

"Do you want to go home? Do you like staying alive? That is the  _point._ Enjoy your church."

-

"Come on. Just a couple of hours."

Sherlock threw his hands up and stomped over to the door. "What's the  _point?"_

"The point is we're stuck in Madrid with nothing to do for the next week. Just come  _on,_ I'm only going to market. No churches, I promise. It'll be fun."

"No."

-

"Eat something."

"Eating slows me down."

"From what? You can spare ten minutes. You can't do anything for seven days."

"I'm thinking."

-

"Sherlock. We have four more days. Stop fucking pacing."

"I know where he is, why isn't he there- why, John?"

"If you could wait four fucking days, you can talk to a contact and figure it out."

"Four days is too fucking long."

"You're telling me. I'm going out."

"No."

"What do you mean, 'no'?"

"I mean you've been out too often lately. Someone's bound to notice. Unsafe."

"Fuck. Fine."

-

"Tomorrow."

"Yes, I know. You've only said it fourteen times."

"We need a plan. Tomorrow, six in the morning. We'll start with establishing a contact, then- no, Mycroft will have called first. You deal with that while I establish contact. Then-"

"Sherlock."

"Then stakeout the target's home. Unfortunately, more waiting. Shouldn't be for long, though-"

"Sherlock."

"Then standard incapaciation-"

Sherlock!"

"What?"

"Relax. Two weeks was an estimation, anyway. We don't know if Mycroft will call and say we need to wait longer. Sit. Breathe. Eat something, for God's sake."

"Oh, don't act so high and mighty. You're going a bit stir-crazy too."

"Of course I am. I'm going insane sitting here and listening to you splutter on about it. I need to do something just as much as you do. But hell, Sherlock, imagine if we were both going on about it."

A pause.

"I wasn't acting high and mighty, Sherlock. I'm feigning sanity so we don't kill each other."

Another pause.

"I need to call Mycroft. Anything over two weeks is ludicrous."

-

They were able to go to work the next day, and Sherlock's plan did come in handy. The man was incapacitated quickly and turned over to the Spanish government (John made a witty Spanish Inquisition joke that Sherlock didn't appreciate).

Three days later, Sherlock grabbed John's hand before catching a train to Portugal.

"I was an arse, wasn't I?"

"You're usually an arse."

"The last two weeks, specifically."

"Yeah. More so then."

"I'm sorry."

"It's fine. I wouldn't expect anything else."

 

-

 

Now, after the months have worn on and gaps between periods of blankness widened and sleep dwindled, there's a far different response.

"Two weeks on the inside. Forty in a month? Impressive, but suspicious."

"Is the location secure?"

"Yes. I've ensured it."

"Fantastic." Sherlock didn't bother to place a hand over the reciever. "John! Two weeks."

"Fucking brilliant," John said. "Please tell me he doesn't need me."

"Is that all?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes. I'll text if there's any new developments."

Sherlock hung up and plugged the phone into charge before joining John on the bed.

-

It was fifteen hours before they awoke, clinging to each other, sheets tangled and half thrown off the mattress. 

"Tea?" John murmurred.

Sherlock hummed. "No rush."

"Ergh, get off me. I'm all sticky. Argentina's more humid than I thought."

"Some parts are incredibly dry. Argentina's an enormous country."

"Yeah, yeah. And somehow your feet are still cold."

Sherlock grinned and turned toward John. "You like my cold feet."

"I like  _you._ The cold feet happen to be part of the package."

"Mm, sure."

A long pause. Shuffling. Repositioning.

"What do you fancy doing today? We're a few minutes from a beach."

"We could do that. Or we could get a sandwich in an hour, come back, and sleep for another fifteen hours."

"There's a reason you're the smart one."


	9. Time Flies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> titles suck  
> what time in the deadness are they? what am i calling the deadness? where are they? what are they doing?  
> all good questions. none have answers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm poorly planned and rarely update, but at least i'm. . . something.  
> these are all just dialogue i apologize

"It's been a year."

"Has it really?"

They haven't come by many paper calendars in their time away. There are ones on burner phones, but John has never much liked those. There's also no saved dates on them, and John's always been rubbish at those.

"To the day, yes."

"Damn. That's a long time."

"Yes."

-

"It's the anniversary of my disappearance, then, if I counted right."

"Yes."

"I'm resisting the urge to tell someone I'm alive."

"Good."

A pause.

"It's also. Our anniversary. One year."

Sherlock's face softened quickly and he stepped away from his board of pinned photos. He placed a hand on John's hip and kissed his forehead. "So it is. Unfortunately, Siberia is short on flowers this time of year."

"It's alright, love," John said, tipping his head up to kiss Sherlock properly. "Mycroft got us a flat with heat this month and I bet you had something to do with it."

"I may have," Sherlock said. "Here." He pointed at the board. "He's a tell. But he hasn't done anything. The other four, however. . ."

-

"I was in town today, picking up the shop."

"I should hope so. We're out of nearly everything."

"Anyway," John said, putting the bags down on the counter. "There was a calendar up in the back of the shop. I hadn't really looked at the date in ages."

"And?"

"It's your birthday today."

Sherlock frowned. "I suppose it is. Come here."

John came to stand by Sherlock, who wrapped his arm around John's waist. "This man appears to be the manager of seven different pharmaceutical chains."

"Greedy bastard."

"Missing the point, John."

"And quite intentionally, too. I bought wine."

"Just this once. It is my birthday."

-

"I'm ducking out. Checking with the contact by Mulberry. Should be back in a half hour."

"Alright. If you're not, I'm calling Mycroft."

"Fair."

Twenty-eight minutes later, Sherlock returned with a shopping bag.

"If that's from the bloke by Mulberry, toss it now."

"It's not. I did have to check with him, though. I just happened to have an extra twenty-six minutes to stop by the shops."

"Why? We don't need anything."

Sherlock produced a neon triangular hat from the bag and perched it atop his hair. "It's your birthday."

"Bloody hell. I got you wine for yours, and you got party hats?"

"I couldn't figure out how to say. This seemed at least humorous."

"Come here, you clot."


End file.
